The East Wind
by OxOx-Megz-OxOx
Summary: "...Sherlock…please," John asked, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. It was the break in his voice, though, that caused Sherlock's eyes to snap to his almost instantly. And that was when he knew. Looking into John's eyes, and seeing that desperate, pleading look…he'd never seen him look so small. And he knew that he had to say it. [His Last Vow goodbye scene] *SPOILERS*


Sherlock stood on the landing strip, the noise of the planes loud in his ears. He turned to Mycroft, who was stood just over his shoulder. His brother looked…different. He looked older, somehow. There was a time when Sherlock wouldn't have thought that possible, but he'd never seen Mycroft look so…tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he'd lost quite a lot of weight. And Sherlock had a feeling that the weight-loss was nothing to do with his diet.

"Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson," Sherlock began, looking at Mycroft. He saw John stiffen at the mention of his name, out of the corner of his eye. It had been a long time since he'd used John's full name. It felt strange, alien. He was always just…_John. _"would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, a gesture Sherlock was sure was purely for his benefit. He knew what people thought of his…relationship with John. But right now, he didn't really care. He'd only just come back to John, and now he had to leave him all over again.

His brother turned to the bodyguard he'd brought with him, and gave him a firm nod. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was just so typically _Mycroft. _Always so over-dramatic.

Sherlock turned to watch, as Mycroft, the bodyguard, and Mary walked away. He waited until they were at quite a safe distance, before even daring to look at John. And when he finally did, he wished that he hadn't. Because John looked just as heartbroken as he felt, his face mirroring Sherlock's emotions completely.

John noticed that Sherlock was looking at him, and took a deep breath. He straightened up, and squared his shoulders. He looked like a solider preparing for battle. But the battle was over now, though Sherlock couldn't quite decide who the victor was.

"So, here we are then…" John remarked, clearing his throat. He was getting choked up already, and he tried to look everywhere but at Sherlock. He knew that if he looked at him, then that would be when he wouldn't be able to pretend any longer.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Sorry?" he asked, turning round to face his friend. Sherlock's hands were behind his back, and he was looking into the distance. John could see his chest rising and falling rapidly, and knew that Sherlock was finding this just as hard as he was.

"That's the whole of it." Sherlock replied, looking down at him. A small smile played on his lips, but his eyes were pained. "If you're looking for baby names."

John laughed hoarsely, looking down at his feet. He remembered when he'd said exactly the same thing to Sherlock. It seemed like decades away now. Like a different life. He remembered watching him and Irene, and feeling a strange pang of jealously. He remembered wanting to say something, anything, really, to stop them from looking at each other like…like…like that. The words had come out before he could even stop them.

"No, we've had a scan." His voice was shaky, though he tried to hide it. He didn't want to make this harder than it already was. "We're pretty sure it's a girl."

"Oh. Shame." he said shortly, that ghost of a smile appearing again. He bit his lip, and looked down at John. Now that he was finally faced with a real goodbye, Sherlock had no idea what to say. When he'd jumped from St Bart's, everything had seemed so easy. He'd been completely in control, completely sure of everything. Not this time.

"Yeah…" John looked around, his arms flailing awkwardly. "You know, I can't think of a single thing to say to you. After all this time, not a single _bloody _thing."

Sherlock looked at the floor, his forehead creasing. "No, neither can I. There are so many things that I want to say to you, but…none of them feel like enough anymore."

"I wish you didn't have to go."

"Me too," he whispered sadly, and he really did mean it this time. There was nothing that he wanted more that to just stay. Stay here with John, and Mary. To be there for the arrival of their child, and to help John move out of 221b once and for all. On second thoughts, leaving might be slightly less painful. "But you know what I did."

"Yes, I do. You did what you had to do, you didn't have a choice."

"There's _always _a choice, John." Sherlock replied, looking back out across the field. He could see Mycroft walking with Mary, the bodyguard a short distance behind them. He wondered what they were talking about. Judging by the way Mycroft was swinging his umbrella confidently, probably his job. His older brother always did love to show off. "It is our choices that shape who we are, after all."

"I shot someone too, remember? On our first case. I killed a man, barely even knew you then…" he said, his eyes becoming distant. "But I just had this feeling…that I _had _to do it. Because it was right. This is no different."

"Well, besides the fact that you didn't shoot him in front of the English government." Sherlock pointed out, his lips curving into a smile once more. John grinned, though it didn't quite meet his eyes.

"The game is over."

"The game is never over, John." Sherlock said, his tone suddenly becoming very serious. "But there may be some new players now. That's okay. The east wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were younger. The east wind. This terrifying force that lays waste all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy, and plucks them from the earth. Rips them apart, and destroys them. That was generally me."

"Nice," John nodded solemnly, and Sherlock shrugged.

"He was a rubbish big brother."

"So what about you then?" he asked, keeping his hands behind his back. He was trying to keep himself composed, but he knew that they didn't have a lot of time left. Sherlock had to be gone in the next half an hour, something about a report that needed to be filed by Mycroft. John didn't really understand the technicalities. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Just some…undercover work in Eastern Europe, I think."

"For…for how long?" John asked, unable to hide the break in his voice. He was losing him all over again, and it was almost too much to bear. Of course, this was nowhere near as hard as the first time. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

"Six months, Mycroft estimates. He's rarely wrong."

"And then what?" he enquired, his voice full of hope. He knew that it was very unlikely Sherlock could come back to London. For a while, at least. The government would never allow it. He was a threat now. Or, at least he was in their eyes.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking down at his shoes. He couldn't tell John the truth. He knew that he could probably never come back to London. He knew that he was probably never going to see him again. And John probably knew all of that too. But that didn't mean that they couldn't pretend.

"Who knows. The world is…"

"Your oyster?" John offered, and Sherlock grimaced.

"What a stupid expression." he frowned, and John smiled sadly.

This was it. Their time was up. It was time for Sherlock to go now, no matter how much he didn't want to. There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. And he wanted nothing more than to just stay, and figure everything else out later. Even though he knew that that wasn't an option.

It wasn't _fair. _

Two years. Two years, they'd been apart. Two years, Sherlock had waited until he could finally see John again. And then he'd finally returned, and everything had been good again. But Sherlock had barely even had time to explain himself, and now they were being separated all over again. Ripped apart.

And it wasn't fair.

But he wasn't going to say that. Not now. He wasn't going to make this any harder for the two of them than it already was. Maybe if they pretending as if it were goodbye just until tomorrow, then everything would be alright? If they pretended that it was just for a while. And not for good.

Sherlock extended his hand, and John took it. He could feel the older man's hand shaking in his, but chose to ignore it. He had a feeling he was shaking equally as much. "To the very best of times, John."

He cursed himself inwardly, that that was all he could come up with. As he released his hand from John's, he saw the other man roll his eyes. He barely even had time to register what was happening, when he was enveloped in John's arms.

He sighed, and allowed himself to relax. He let his arms wrap themselves around John, pulling them into him. Breathing him in, Sherlock closed his eyes. He had committed that smell to memory. The feeling of John's hair against his neck, the texture of his jumpers. But now it seemed even more important than ever that he remember these things.

As he may never feel them again.

John was shaking even more now, and Sherlock didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell him that it was all going to be okay, because it wasn't. He couldn't tell him that he'd stay in touch, because he couldn't. And he couldn't tell him that he was going to stay. No matter how much he wanted to. So, instead, he just held him tighter.

But unfortunately, time was no longer on their side. Sherlock doubted it ever had been in the first place. It seemed that something was trying to rip him and John apart. Every time they managed to make their way back to each other, they were only separated again. Like magnets being pulled in opposite directions.

He stepped back from the warmth of John's embrace, and gave him a small nod. He couldn't say any more, he couldn't risk getting too emotional. It was hard enough for him to walk away as it was.

John seemed to understand, and straightened his back once more. He clasped his hands behind his back, and raised one in an almost-salute. Sherlock felt a sharp pang in his chest, though he tried to ignore it. He acknowledged the salute, before turning his back on the army doctor.

Making his way towards the plane, Sherlock could still feel John's eyes on his back. Even as he climbed the steps. But he couldn't look back, he just couldn't. One more look at John would be all it took for him to become unravelled. And he wasn't sure if he'd be able to leave after that.

And yet, something inside him was willing him to turn around. To get one last look.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock caught sight of the doctor once more. He was stood exactly where Sherlock had left him, but the military stance was gone. His shoulders were hunched, and Sherlock was sure he could see tears in the man's eyes. Though he hoped desperately that he was wrong. And for a moment, their eyes locked. And that was when Sherlock knew that he had to say it. This was his last chance.

"John!" Sherlock cried, turning back on his heel, and practically bounding down the steps. He saw John's eyes widen in surprised confusion. His heart was beating rapidly, and he could hear it in his ears. The blood pumping through his body, faster than ever before. All for this one man.

John shook himself, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as Sherlock came to a stop right in front of him.

Quickly fixing his coat and his hair, Sherlock looked down at the shorter man. He'd thought about this moment quite a lot in the two year's he'd been away. But now that it had finally come around, he had no idea what to say. It had never occurred to him that he'd ever actually find the courage to even _think _these words. Never mind actually say them to John himself.

There was a part of him that still thought it was a terrible idea. There were so many things that could go wrong, and he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to find the words to truly explain what he meant. What if John got the wrong idea? Or worse, what if he got entirely the right idea, and was simply disgusted with Sherlock instead? After all, it wasn't really something that they'd ever discussed-

But as Sherlock looked down at the man in front of him, he knew that he _had _to say it now. Because the idea of John never knowing what he was about to say was just too much for him to bear.

"John, there's…something I should say. I meant to say, always…and I never have." Sherlock began, already stumbling over his words. John sniffed loudly, looking away as Sherlock calculated his words. He never was very good at this sort of thing. At least, not when he really _meant _it. With Janine, it had been easy. Because he'd known that it wasn't real. "Since it's unlikely we'll meet again, I…might as well say it now."

There was a long pause that hung in the air. Sherlock tried to avoid John's eyes, biting his lip. He knew that John was waiting for him to say it, to just say anything really. But he couldn't. The words just wouldn't come out. It felt as if he were choking on them.

And before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out.

"Sherlock's actually a girl's name."

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't even know where it had come from. But it made John laugh, nonetheless. Something that Sherlock didn't think he'd seen for a long time. And he was grateful for it. Because he'd missed that laugh. And until now, he hadn't realised just how much.

He wanted to memorise it. Lock it away in his mind palace, where no one would ever find it. Where he would be able to find it whenever he wanted. He memorised ever crinkled line of his face, and the whiteness of his teeth. The small glint in his eyes, and the sound of his laughter carried in the air. He committed it all to memory, and filed it away where it could never be found.

"No it's not." he said, his laughter slowly dying away. He shook his head, and put his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at Sherlock. "Sherlock…we haven't got much time. What is it? What's wrong?"

"I…" Sherlock began, but once again, his words failed him. It was as if something was holding him back, stopping him from saying it. He could tell himself that it was just nerves, but what if it was more than that? What if some part of him knew that it really _wasn't _a good idea? "No, I can't. I…I just can't."

He shook his head. He couldn't do it, he just couldn't. He couldn't face the look on John's face when he…when he found out. The way John was looking at him now, like he was the only person that mattered…that was the way he wanted things to stay. He didn't want John to see him the way that everybody else did.

A freak.

Looking down at the floor, he turned back. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. John was probably one of the only people left that didn't look at him like he was some sort of…experiment gone wrong. Like he was crazy. John was the one person that _understood _him. He couldn't bear it if John started looking at him like all the rest of them.

As he began to walk back to the plane for the second time, he felt a hand grip his arm. He spun round, and Sherlock found himself face-to-face with John once more.

"Try." he said shortly, and Sherlock's eyes glanced back to meet his. He'd expected to see anger, maybe even a little disgust. No doubt John already knew what he was going to say. But all he saw was sadness. "I…I might never see you again."

"That's what you thought last time. Maybe – "

"No. Sherlock…" John was insistent, and Sherlock sighed. John Watson was probably the only person in the world that was just as stubborn as he was. They were an almost-perfect match, in some ways. Because while they were both equally as stubborn, they still managed to balance each other out.

"It doesn't need saying." Sherlock mumbled, looking out across the landing strip. He couldn't look John in the eyes, not now. If he saw John begin to look at him the same as everybody else did…he didn't think he'd ever be able to forget it. And he didn't want that to be his last memory of John.

"I should bloody well think it does," he replied, laughing bitterly. Sherlock would have smiled, if he wasn't so conflicted.

"I…John, surely you must know…you've always known, haven't you? You must've done –" he stuttered, biting his lip to stop the words. He was rambling. Stalling, and they both knew it. But he just couldn't get the words out. No matter how hard he tried. It was purely irrational, he knew that, but…he was afraid. He was afraid of John becoming like everyone else.

"Known what? Sherlock…_please_," John asked, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. It was the break in his voice, though, that caused Sherlock's eyes to snap to his almost instantly. And that was when he knew. Looking into John's eyes, and seeing that desperate, pleading look…he'd never seen him look so small. And he knew that he had to say it.

"I-I love you."

And that was it. There was no big, gushing speech. No flowers, or poems, or big displays of affection. Just three little words. And somehow, that was enough. Because it was the pure, unadulterated honesty that lay behind them, that mattered the most. Not where they were said, or how. Just that they were honest, and that they were truly meant. And Sherlock had never said a truer word in his life.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock closed his eyes. He prepared himself for the harsh slap that would be John's next few words. His heart was pounding, and if he didn't know any better, then he would have said that his hands were shaking, too.

"You - what?" John asked, swaying on his feet. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he saw John staring up at him, his forehead scrunched up in confusion.

"I love you, John." he repeated, this time a little more confidently. But he still couldn't bring himself to smile, or even to reach out and touch John. It was his job to be able to read people, and it was usually very easy for him to just _know _exactly what John was thinking. Not this time. This time, John was as readable as a blank page.

"What?"

"I - oh for God's sake, I'm not saying it again." Sherlock sighed, unwilling to go through further humiliation. Mycroft and Mary were circling back now, and he didn't want them to come back and hear _any part _of their conversation. The last thing he needed was Mycroft trying to have a heart-to-heart with him. " I think I've made myself perfectly clear."

"Sherlock -" John began, but Sherlock cut him off. Whatever John was going to say, Sherlock had a feeling that it wasn't going to be good. Besides, it was time to go. Time to move on, go somewhere new. Time to try and forget about John Watson. He'd said everything that he had to say.

"No, it's okay. It's...it's fine." he lied, brushing it off with a shaky gesture. He could tell that John didn't believe him, but it didn't much matter. He was never going to see him again, after all. "Have a nice life, John. And I mean that."

Before John could say anything more, Sherlock walked quickly back to the plane. He didn't look back this time, though he paused at the door of the plane. He closed his eyes, taking a long and deep breath to compose himself. As soon as he stepped through the door, it was quite likely he was never going to see John Watson again.

"Wait, I-"

"_Goodbye, John." _he whispered, as he stepped over the threshold. Though he knew that John couldn't possibly hear him now. He slid his coat off his shoulders, sat down by the window. He could still see John standing out on the landing strip, looking completely blank. Still, Sherlock was unable to deduce anything about how John was feeling. But maybe that was for the best.

Outside the plane, John turned as Mycroft and Mary approached. He managed a small, sad smile as Mary came towards him. She seemed to understand, and said nothing. Mycroft stood a short distance away, his expression unreadable. He clasped his hands behind his back, watching as the door to the plane closed.

Mary's hand reached out for his, and John took it. But the gesture was no longer comforting. Her hand felt cold, and…wrong. He didn't say anything, though. Because then she would know that something was wrong. And he didn't really feel like talking about the conversation he'd just had with Sherlock. He didn't even understand it himself.

Sherlock…_loved _him.

Sherlock…loved _him. _

_Sherlock…_loved him.

No matter which way he thought it, the words still wouldn't sink in. They felt strange, almost alien. But there was also something that was oddly…right about them. Like it was something that John should've known all along. Something that maybe he _had _known all along. Deep down. Maybe he had.

He watched numbly, as the plane prepared for take-off. His grip on Mary's hand was limp, and lifeless, and his knees felt weak. But he stood his ground, watching as the plane began to take off. He couldn't bring himself to look away, knowing that Sherlock was inside.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was leaving.

Sherlock loved him.

And it was only as he watched the plane fly off into the distance, his hand in Mary's, that John Watson realised something. Something he wish he'd realised much, _much _earlier.

He loved him too.


End file.
